


Las Mentiras Que Decimos

by vivianne_leigh



Category: BioShock, BioShock Infinite
Genre: Blood and Violence, Booker is a soldier here, Canon-Typical Violence, Fortune Telling, Gen, Historical References, Tarot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-21
Updated: 2017-06-21
Packaged: 2018-11-16 20:22:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 643
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11260275
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vivianne_leigh/pseuds/vivianne_leigh
Summary: While serving his time in the U.S Army, Booker gets his fortune told. Takes place while he is a young soldier in 1890. Title is "The Lies We Say" in Spanish.





	Las Mentiras Que Decimos

It is December 27, 1890 when she meets a young man named Booker. 

 

He reminds her of a young stallion when he walks into her parlor, all lean muscles and scruffy hair wrapped in a smell like sweat and earth. His rough hand pushes the door open, unafraid of being noticed, but when he notices her gaze from behind the worn counter, he stumbles and stops short. Ignoring his hesitation, the wise woman smiled at him, hands already reaching for the well-worn tarot cards she kept beside the table. The shop she ran was cluttered, strewn with objects and lit by only weak lamplight, but the young man carefully navigated the the chaos and settled into the chair across from her, wary. 

 

“So, what have you come for?” She asked, feeling herself falling into her familiar role. He wanted knowledge, of course- of the future, his fate- like so many other young men who came to her.   

 

“I want to know... my future.” His voice was quieter then she expected, and deep. Automatically, her hands began piling the cards, sliding the stack across the table to him. “Shuffle them,” she told him, meeting his confused look with confidence. He fumbled a bit, unused to handling anything that wasn’t a gun, but eventually managed to shuffle the deck successfully. When she asked him to cut the deck he frowned, unsure of her wording, but when she chuckled at him and made a thumbing motion he understood. Satisfied with his handiwork, she took the cards from him and spread them, feeling the soft spots where her hands had worn down the material.

 

“Now, ask your questions,” she told him, fingers hovering over the deck in preparation. “And the cards will respond.” 

 

“Will I succeed against my enemies? Will I be redeemed in the eyes of my peers?”

 

With that, she began flipping them over slowly. As she watched the tarot reveal itself she bent close to the table, eyes slitted in concentration as she decoded their message. Her posture was guarded, analytical- even as he intently watched her face, Booker could hardly get many hints as to what she was thinking. After a few moments’ pause, however, she straightened up again, face a carefully composed mask. Both of Booker’s calloused hands were gripping the flimsy oak table with a kind of barely restrained desperation, knuckles bloodless with effort. “Well?” He asked. The air seemed to be growing heavier, pushing the pair imperceptibly into the ground. 

 

Turning away from his probing eyes, she let herself become immersed in the story the cards were telling her once more. Flashes of burning buildings came to mind; abandoned infants and enormous birds mingled with the overpowering stench of blood. She saw him victorious, his enemies at his feet, his dignity returned. But the figures on the floor were women, and children, and most confusingly... himself. A sense of unease swept through her, as palpable and cold as rainwater down her spine.

 

Insistent and oblivious, the young man reached out and touched her hand gently, flinching when she jumped at the sudden contact. 

 

“Will I- Will I succeed against my enemies? Will I be redeemed in the eyes of my peers?”

 

She looked at him- his boyish yet tired features, with premature frown lines and rough stubble. Hie expression teetered between nervous and hopeful, and she couldn’t find it in herself to share what she had read. The dead Indian women and their children, the dead  _ self.  _ The bubbling of a freshwater creek, the tears of a pale young woman, and the whitewashed boards of a tiny southern church. The scenes rattled her to the core, and she struggled to keep her composure as the images left her. Swallowing her guilt afterwards, she patted his hand and lied through her teeth.

 

“More then you know, son.  **More** then you know.”

 

 

 


End file.
